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There’s a vast dark gap between other homes lit with Christmas lights, and beneath it candles flickering in a snowbank in defiance of heavy rain and wind. Aside from the elements there’s mostly an erie quiet since the water-and-ice surface makes movement treacherous, but at intervals people pause to reflect, place their own candle and exchange memories with others who shared one of Longyearbyen’s most tragic moments three years ago.
About Post Author
Mark Sabbatini
I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation.
Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads.
But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.